


Bound(to Fall)

by Canislupusarctos



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Attempted Suicide, Canon Compliant, Depression, Hallucinations, Hashimada Big Bang 2018, Konoha - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy, Warring States Period(Naruto), no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canislupusarctos/pseuds/Canislupusarctos
Summary: Madara regrets listening to Black Zetsu, and Black Zetsu is exceedingly cruel, and won’t let him even have his final rest.This was written for the Hashimada Big Bang prompt “until the day I reach eternal sleep, your smiling face will have to stay with me without fail”.





	Bound(to Fall)

**Author's Note:**

> I still don’t have a beta reader, so there may be typos. Also I have a couple ideas for related stories, so if you all like this enough, I’ll write them.

Hashirama was everywhere.  No matter what Madara did, no matter how much he pounded the cave walls, focused on only the bad things, bashed his head into the wall until he could no longer remain conscious, cut himself until he hardly had enough blood left, Hashirama’s smile and voice remained.  Even when he no longer had the presence of mind to be fully conscious, there were  _ voices _ , a bright smile.  The voices were Hashirama’s, Mito’s, Touka’s,  _ Tobirama’s _ , and, even sometimes Izuna’s.  But Madara saw Hashirama everywhere.  Always him. The White Zetsu, made from Hashirama’s cells, and Black Zetsu, whenever he laughed, though he had no relation to Hashirama, Madara heard Hashirama’s pure laughter instead of the sadistic cackle that Black Zetsu truly let out.  It drove him insane, seeing and hearing illusions of what could have been, in a more ideal world.  _ When,  _ Madara wondered,  _ did I become so attached to Hashirama?  No matter what I do, I can’t break whatever binds me to him, my only weakness after Izuna died, the only way to drag me down. _

 

In a logical sense, Madara knew that the Infinite Tsukuyomi wouldn’t fix anything.  But, a part of him, a small part at the time, whispered silken lies in his ear, the honeyed words echoing in his head,  _ it is the answer to all your problems.  The Infinite Tsukuyomi will make everyone happy, and you can achieve everything your young, idealistic self and Hashirama dreamed of.  All you have to do is sacrifice nine bijuu and their jinchuuriki...as well as your own humanity.  _ Was the voice actually a part of Madara?  Or was it Black Zetsu, entrapping him the way a Venus flytrap ensnared its prey, with sweet dew and hidden fangs?  Madara didn’t know anymore. Though he was long past shedding tears over not knowing himself. Not past punishing himself for it though.

 

_ Drip _ .

 

Indulging the voice, Madara thought back to his idealistic young self.  When he had all his brothers, and he actually believed he could protect them all, when, in reality, it was their deaths that made him strong enough to protect.  How ironic that he would only be strong enough to protect those dear to him once they had already been torn away permanently. It was a living hell, but he had not yet known that at the time of the memory.  Then, Madara had announced to his brothers with determination and some amount of real confidence, “I will protect you! As long as I’m around, you’ll be safe!”

 

They had watched him with wide eyes, impressed, in awe, and believing his words completely.  Izuna had tackled Madara with a hug, “And I’ll protect you!”

 

There had been genuine smiles and laughter.  Both were things Madara hadn’t seen or heard in the present in over a decade.  His own smiles had been empty, his laughter hollow, for even longer.

 

_ Drip. _

 

When the first of his brothers died, Madara was sure he’d never feel functional again.  He’d been close, katana centimetres from the enemy’s kunai when it happened. A Senju adult had been fighting his second youngest brother, Naoki.  Naoki, of course, was not able to hold his own at such a young age. But Madara had thought he would be fine for a minute or so. He was correct, but he had been a fraction of a second too slow.  He’d been engaged in a duel of his own, with another Senju adult, twice his own size or more. Katana flashed like flying fish, a deadly dance of polished metal. The air was filled with screams, the rending of flesh from bone, jutsu, the clanging of metal on armour, blades sinking into unprotected bodies, or parts of bodies.  Despite this, Madara heard only the singing of blades, like the wind, and the roar of the hungry fire in his blood, fire that he harnessed with ease, expelling some of the searing heat from his body to use against his opponent.

 

Madara was toying with his opponent, about to deliver an incapacitating blow and go help Naoki.  But then, just a second earlier than Madara thought, from the look of the other duel, the Senju got past Naoki’s defenses, the child like earth before lightning, vulnerable to the penetrating power of even a kunai.  Madara saw only the shining blade, heard only the exhilarating music of battle, usually a welcome sound, turned a horror. He ran to save Naoki, but the fire in his blood was no longer on his side, keeping his reflexes sharp, body strong, and movements quick, ready to be expelled as his strength incarnate.  Now, it burned him from the inside out, turning on him like it did his enemies. Fire was a fickle thing. It preyed on the weak, on fear, and obeyed only the strong, and, at the moment, Madara was nothing more than a helpless child fearing for the life of his little brother, no longer the fearsome warrior who commanded flames.

 

Unable to rely on the fire in his blood, Madara relied instead on a different kind of fire, one that was always simultaneously on your side, yet always hurting you.  The fire known as love. His opponent was pursuing him, he knew it even though he couldn’t hear his own ragged breathing, or his feet pounding on the grass. Deflecting an attack with his katana without thought, Madara otherwise ignored the Senju who was now but a nuisance.  It took hardly any time at all to deflect that blow, but it was enough. Madara tried to strike the kunai about to kill Naoki out of the attacker’s hand, but was only able to watch as the silver knife plunged into his brother’s unprotected gut. Naoki didn’t say anything, only pressed a hand to his wound, pulled it away, stared at the blood, and opened his mouth, unable to make a sound.  But Madara heard,  _ you said you would protect me, aniki.  Why didn’t you? _

 

The fire of love seared Madara’s insides red-hot at the first death of one of his brothers.  That fire quickly ravaged his body from the inside, the way a fever might, similarly leaving behind a permanent mark.  Where a severe fever might cause permanent disability, the fire of love left the Sharingan, a curse and a blessing, the ability to fill oneself with  _ things  _ to fill the holes in one’s being and heart, and the curse of never being able to forget, of being able to see the truth, and of seeing everything.  Love, in the way the Uchiha experienced it, was really a fever of the heart sometimes. They didn’t have to be physically ill in order for it to ravage their bodies and leave behind the Sharingan as its permanent mark.  After the fever of the heart had passed its worst point, Madara’s vision was stained blood red, and he committed a merciless act for the first time in his life. He lashed out at the two Senju, striking them with his katana in vital regions that wouldn’t kill them immediately, but inevitably, and slowly.  Ignoring their pleas to put them out of their misery, Madara walked away, the battle over, the body of his brother Naoki in his arms, katana back on his belt. “I’ll never feel like a complete person again.”

 

_ Drip. _

 

He was wrong.  The person who would change that was Hashirama.  There had been a moment when he realized he felt like a complete person again.  He’d still had the permanent “scar” of the Sharingan, and a few holes in his heart, but he was still a functional person with no vital parts missing.  Hashirama had taken off ahead of him in cliff-climbing, and Madara had  _ genuinely  _ acted like a child, “Of course you did, you got a head start!”

 

Hashirama had laughed, not really at him, but at the situation.  Madara had looked at him and realized that this boy had stitched together the pieces of him that had been shattered almost beyond repair and scattered far and wide.  It was an impressive accomplishment. Yet, in the pit of Madara’s stomach, he dreaded the day he would be shattered  _ completely  _ beyond repair when they were inevitably found out.  For, in the core of his being, he knew Hashirama was a Senju.

 

“Let’s build our village right here!” Hashirama announced, throwing his arms out wide to indicate the forested area below where they sat on the cliff.

 

He continued as Madara discreetly observed him, reveling in his smile, “We could have a system where someone assigns commissions by skill level and where children don’t have to kill each other!”

 

Madara barely heard him, too absorbed in taking in Hashirama’s smile, something he would cherish forever.  Somewhat absentmindedly, he smirked, “You do know it’s only you, dreaming of such ridiculous things?”

 

Hashirama’s smile left his face for a moment in his shock, then it quickly returned, and he asked Madara, “What about you?”

 

More presently this time, Madara smiled, “I guess I am too.”

 

Hashirama smiled again, and it made the fire of love in Madara’s being glow pleasantly warm, thawing parts of his heart and lungs that had been frozen for years, allowing him to breathe, to live, without a constant reminder of death, destruction, and despair.  He didn’t know at the time, but the feeling was romantic love, something he would have understood were it not for the Uchiha’s close ties with love and power, usually also connected. Madara smiled, no clue that he meant just as much to Hashirama as Hashirama meant to him.  Each of them was a stone on the water, creating ripples with far-reaching effects as they skipped, skimming the surface, paths intrinsically linked, locked to one another, not knowing if they were to reach the other side or not.

 

_ Splash. _

 

Every day, Madara wanted to see Hashirama’s smile again.  He would wait impatiently for a time he could sneak out again, in the hopes that Hashirama would be at the river, even when they hadn’t planned a meeting that day.  He no longer lay awake at night, struggling to breathe under a burden too heavy for him alone, without support. He’d stopped cutting his own veins and arteries in the hopes that he’d bleed out.  He hadn’t laid in the river hoping he would fall asleep so he could drown, instead of instinctively swimming to shore, not since getting to know Hashirama. Things seemed to be getting better, and in fact they were.  Hashirama had been the one to pull him out of the darkness of his depression and self-loathing. Every time Madara saw his smile, it only seemed brighter.

 

_ Splash. _

 

It hurt to say, “You are Senju.  I truly wish it wasn’t so. My brothers were killed by the Senju, and your brothers, by the Uchiha.  So there’s no need to show what’s inside of us to each other. Our next meeting will likely be on the battlefield, Hashirama Senju.”

 

Despite what that day had caused, no one, save for Hashirama, could ever fathom how much pain Madara felt that day, in particular while saying those awful, awful words he didn’t mean.  Unshed tears stung his eyes as a fever of the heart wracked his body once again, this time far more intensely than the previous three times, for each Sharingan tomoe. This time, it was all Madara could do to remain outwardly functional and normal.  His vision turned blood red as a unique pattern swirled in his eyes: the Mangekyou. Looking at Hashirama, despite the fact that he wore a pained, crushed expression, Madara could still see the smile he so loved. He wanted to see it for real again, beyond his imagination.  He briefly considered disobeying his father, but realized it would do no good, and could result in something worse than separation. Namely, permanent and irreversible separation: death.

 

_ Splash. _

 

By the time Madara reached adulthood, only two major things were holding him together, keeping him from shattering like glass under the pressure of his internal fire of love, which had spiraled out of control, causing unimaginable pain at all times.  One was Izuna, and the other was the hope of being with Hashirama again. At the very least, Madara wanted to see his smile one more time, even if it meant his own death. He’d gone to the river where he and Hashirama once met, as children, childishly hoping, wishing, that Hashirama would be there too.  He wasn’t, of course. But Madara saw Hashirama’s smiling reflection on the water’s surface regardless. Had he spiraled into insanity? To an extent, yes, but what did it matter in war? He still had a level head where it mattered. A clan needed a logical leader who would do what they could for the best interests of the entire group.  They didn’t need a mentally stable leader with an acceptable level of mental health, not if that didn’t prevent said leader from being a good commander, leader, and confidant.

 

_ Splash. _

 

Blood speckled the ground.  Izuna’s blood. The crimson droplets fell in slow motion, like miniscule rubies.  To Madara, it was a nightmare.  _ That damned Tobirama _ , he thought.  Abandoning his(admittedly not very serious) duel with Hashirama, he caught his wounded brother in his arms.   _ Maybe _ , he thought,  _ this will give us a way to justify an alliance, Hashirama will heal Izuna, and we can build our dream village where shinobi won’t constantly kill each other. _

 

Hashirama rushed over after Madara and immediately offered peace.   _ Yes _ , Madara thought,  _ I accept. _  He meant that thought in more ways than one, even if he didn’t completely realize it himself.  Hashirama didn’t smile, but Madara could see his smile anyway. Taking a tentative step forward, not believing what was happening, Madara was a literal second from taking Hashirama’s hand and ending the centuries-old Uchiha-Senju feud, or at least putting the clans on the path to a mended relationship.  Then Izuna sealed his own fate and changed the course of the world with one sentence, “Don’t...trust the Senju.”

 

Some insanely small, irrational part of Madara that prioritized his brother over Hashirama many times over seemed to take control.  Madara stopped, throwing a smoke bomb. He made sure that he was gone by the time the smoke cleared. Because of this, Izuna would die, and a piece of Madara’s soul with him.

 

_ Splash. _

 

Standing atop the cliff on which he had once dreamed of a far-off ideal with Hashirama, Madara basked in the warmth of a genuine smile from Hashirama.  They had looked out on the dream they had made a reality together. It was almost perfect, aside from that Tobirama hated Madara, discriminating against his clan, and both Madara and Hashirama could never get back most of their brothers.  But life had to go on, so Madara enjoyed and appreciated what he still had.

 

_ Splash. _

 

Empty black eyes stared at nothing.  How could Madara have been deceived? His eyes saw through everything?  But of course, with the fire within him dim, he could not use those abilities of his.  Even so, to be snuck up on from behind, just to have someone standing behind him, and especially to be stabbed in the back, by his true love, no less, was humiliating, shameful, and just about the most hurtful thing Madara had experienced.  Those dear to you, particularly your true love, you were supposed to fight alongside, back to back with, protecting them, and coating your sword, soaking your clothes and skin in the blood of your enemies. To be your own archnemesis, pierced by the sword of your true love, was one of the most painful imaginable realities.  After he had said his last words, Madara had hoped Hashirama would smile one last time, for him, but instead, Hashirama let himself cry.  _ That isn’t what I need to hear and see _ , Madara thought.  He died, the fire inside him having gone out, before Hashirama could kiss him one last time.

 

_ Splash. _

 

Suddenly back in the dark cave, Madara could see the floor and walls were slick with dark blood.  All of it was his. Whenever Hashirama wasn’t there to keep him stable, Madara would cut himself. It was a bad habit, and he had done it even more since making the mistake of letting Black Zetsu manipulate him.  Yes, the creature had threatened to do something to Hashirama, Naori, Hikaku, Touka, Mito, and the village. He’d wanted to protect them. However, Madara could have just killed Black Zetsu, or done a quick check, which would have brought him to the conclusion that Black Zetsu wasn’t strong enough to follow through.  The scent of iron wafted from every direction. The edges of Madara’s vision began to go dark. The world spun as he grew dizzy.

 

_ Good,  _ he thought,  _ maybe now I can finally rest.   _ He no longer heard the sounds of the cave, instead he heard Hashirama, Mito, Touka, Izuna, and Tobirama, as if Izuna had survived and it were any other day.  He didn’t see the cave walls either. Instead, he saw a hallucination of the same people he could hear. And he didn’t hate this Tobirama, because this Tobirama didn’t kill Izuna, and didn’t give him a constant side-eye.  It was a painful vision of what could have been. But what haunted him the most was knowing he would never see Hashirama’s smile again, even as he saw it in his hallucination, as that was something he had complete control over.  If only he hadn’t gone with Black Zetsu.

 

“I won’t let you die, Madara Uchiha.”

 

Those words wouldn’t have sounded so sinister to most, and certainly not if Madara had stayed in the village.  But the voice was Black Zetsu. Black Zetsu wouldn’t even allow him to finally rest. “No…”

 

The sinister laugh of the synthetic creature echoed, bouncing off the cave walls, “Oh yes, Madara Uchiha.  You’re mine. My pawn.”

 

Madara still completely lost consciousness before Black Zetsu could do anything, but he knew he would wake up again, in this world.  He no longer had any control over his life.


End file.
